Saint Diego

Whenever Diego got drunk and high he’d claim
he was going to dig up Charles Bukowski and
screw his corpse. He’d scream that Buk had raped
him when he was sixteen, and poetry prone. Most
of Diego’s friends knew that he was off his rocker.
His pregnant girlfriend sat with her legs wide open
in a short skirt no pregnant women should wear,
not even a supermodel. Rosa was here illegally
(aren’t they all), she had a two year old son by a
coyote. Her eyes were brown like most Mexican
eyes in this part of hell. Her mound was well-defined,
her lips bulbous. She did not seem to care if Diego
screwed Bukowski or not. But by now Diego had
moved on, his face buried in his hands as if they
were a fleshy mirror. Rosa smiled, imagining
the Sonoran Desert. Her two year old pushed
a toy car across a torn vinyl floor, his Spanish
like a cactus, could catch you unaware. Suddenly,
La Migra took them all and put them out of their
misery.